


O brightening glance

by Laylah



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Backstory, First Meetings, Gen, Secret Samol, pattern magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:06:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: Lem has a list of things to collect for the Archive. He finds somewhat more than he expects to.





	O brightening glance

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Secret Samol, abbyisshabby!

The daily chores of a junior archivist are both entirely predictable and different every day. Predictable in that they are always lists of items to collect—events are officially not supposed to be provoked, only used where they naturally occur in the Pattern, according to all but the most radical theorists, so it is always objects that they send their juniors to retrieve. But the specifics, pattern magic being what it is, almost never repeat.

Today the items on Lem King's list include a bunch of radishes, a jar of assorted buttons, five tumbled-smooth river rocks of the same color but different sizes, a tuft of tail fur from a sparrow, and the notes snow makes. Those last two are a good sign, he thinks; they're an indication that the senior semioticians have some faith in his ability to untangle the more esoteric requirements of working with the Pattern.

They're also the hard part, of course.

The radishes and the buttons he can simply buy in town—the former with a coin, and the latter with some advice on how to rearrange the dressmaker's shop so that they're more likely to prosper—and it's a nice enough day that hiking up into the woods that dress the nearby slopes won't be any sort of hardship. There's a stream that runs through the woods, fed by a mountain spring, and by the time it comes down to the Archive town it's broad and deep enough to supply water and mill power for most of the town's needs. But up in the woods it's a meandering, fast-moving little brook, water dancing and racing over stones in its hurry to find the destination gravity promises it.

Lem climbs the slope in easy, unhurried strides, his pack a comfortable weight on his back, the sounds of the forest buoying him up at each step. His breath steams in the air, but the chill isn't uncomfortable. Those last two items on his list are going to be tricky, but he'll figure it out somehow. They must be possible. He wouldn't be getting requests for things that aren't possible. Not unless there was something to be learned from the process of failure, anyway. He's almost sure.

He finds a good spot to investigate the stream, where the bank is solid rocks instead of mud and fallen leaves, and there are plenty of worn-smooth stones to sort through. The water is cold enough to make the joints of his fingers ache when he reaches into it, but that's not enough to stop him, and soon he has a row of differently sized current-rounded stones sitting on the bank to dry enough that he can be sure of their color. For a few minutes he just sits on one of the rocks, his hands tucked into his armpits to warm his fingers back up, and watches the birds and squirrels that make their busy way through the forest canopy.

But doing nothing is difficult, so once his fingers have stopped aching he digs his flute out of his pack. Music has always been a pleasure for him, one of the things that makes the world feel more vivid and rich. He wouldn't say he's a good musician himself, not yet, but he'll get there. It's a good goal.

The tune he's playing this afternoon is a simple one, something that busies his hands and his breath without occupying all of his mind. Where is he going to find those last two items he needs? They're riddles, probably without single right answers, but with _some_ right answer all the same, and it's up to him to find ones that will satisfy. He watches the birds flitting through the branches above and considers the options.

He spots an occasional flash of color through the trees, but most of the birds in the wood are in drab winter plumage, wrens and sparrows whose charm is far more in their song than their feathers. One of the sparrows, actually, appears to be interested in Lem himself: it flutters down to stand on the other end of the rock slab he's sitting on, watching him as he plays. Maybe this one holds the key—maybe it can help him with his next endeavor. It seems fearless enough, staying put even when he shifts his weight and lowers his flute.

"Except you don't look particularly furry," he tells the brave sparrow. It cocks its head at him as if it's trying to understand his words. He peers at it as it hops a little closer. "No, you don't have any fur at all, do you?"

The sparrow hops up and down and then... _unfolds_ , impossibly, colors shifting and shapes blossoming, textures changing as the tiny bird opens up in utter defiance of any laws of matter into a halfling, pink-cheeked and scruffy with leaves in his wild hair, and _how can this be possible_?

"Did you just ask me—a bird—if I had fur?" he asks.

Lem laughs. He can't help it; it's not that the question is funny, really, just that this whole situation is so—so—

"What's so funny, huh?" the halfling demands. "Seriously, what's your deal?"

"I'm sorry," Lem says, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm not. It's just—have you ever had those moments when something suddenly makes sense and it changes everything you thought you knew about the world?"

The halfling gives him a look like he's just said something ridiculous but maybe it's endearing. "Yeah. Sure. Like, the kind of moment where you go, holy shit, I can turn into a bird?"

"Sort of," Lem says. The excitement hums in his veins. The world seems fresh and new and brilliant. "Except—except it's more like you can turn the _world_ into a bird."

"No, I'm pretty sure I can't," the halfling says. "Also? That sounds like a terrible idea."

"I just mean—like this," Lem says, lifting his flute to his lips again. Words are failing him, but the feeling, the certainty, is as clear and sharp as the cold water in the brook: that the Pattern is not only in physical _things_ , but in the qualities of light, the changing heat of a flame, the rise and fall of a melody. All music is part of _a_ pattern, of course, or it would be just noise, but if it can also connect to _the_ Pattern.... 

The notes he plays now aren't strictly speaking a _song_ ; they don't pay any attention to the rules of musical theory as set down by half a dozen different cultures whose works the Archive has preserved. The intervals are wrong, the tempo uncertain, but he's feeling the Pattern in a way he never has before and he's sure that this is possible, if he can get the notes _just so_ —

The first drops of rain land on his hands, tiny and sharp and cold. He looks up, but there isn't real cloudcover above, just a patch of condensed... _fuzziness_ in the air above him. Almost. This is almost it. He tries again, transposing the odd melody into a higher key, and the rain turns white and meandering and delicate.

It only lasts for a few seconds; in the higher key there are a few notes that are just beyond the flute's range, and as soon as the song stops the tiny snowstorm dissipates. But he's just proved it's _possible_. Those are the notes that snow makes. And with an instrument that had more range, who knows how much more he could do?

The halfling is still staring at him. "You are the weirdest person I've ever met."

Lem laughs. "Really?" He's not that unusual, is he? Certainly not compared to someone who can turn into birds. He holds out a hand. "I'm Lem King."

The halfling's hand is tiny compared to Lem's, but his grip is strong. "Fero Feritas. You're from down there?" He nods in the general direction of the Archives, downstream and downhill from here.

"I'm collecting things for the Archive," Lem says. His river stones have mostly dried by now and it looks like some of them should be serviceable. 

"And that makes you need to play weird snow music in the middle of nowhere, huh," Fero says. It's hard to tell if he's being sarcastic or if he just takes everything in stride.

Well, when in doubt, assume the best. "Exactly! I'm trying to figure out a few tricky requests for materials. That was one of them, and—oh!" What if Fero has the answer to both of today's riddles, not just one? "That bird thing you do, I don't suppose you can turn into something furry, as well?"

Fero laughs at him, and Lem grins back. This is the start of something wonderful. He can feel it.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of course is lifted from Yeats' "Among School Children," because the last stanza speaks so clearly to pattern magic and the essential interconnection of things: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43293/among-school-children
> 
> If there's a pattern magic equivalent of prestidigitation, I'm imagining that Lem's snow tune here is that: it can make a little personal flurry, but nowhere near enough to have a mechanical effect. (I mean, maybe there's a version that has mechanical effects, but that version would have to be discovered by someone who doesn't roll 6s as often as Jack does.)


End file.
